Language in Time Part I of III: Winter Mornings

January 1994

She ripped the comforter off my bed, exposing squinted eyes to artificial light. It was one of those lucky winter mornings in New York -- when I woke up late enough to catch a glimpse of the sun before it set by the time I walked out of school. My sister was combing her silky black hair and my brother was snoring on the bed beside mine when she yelled from downstairs. "Didi! Come down here! Eat your eggs and drink your milk, we're late!" Yes mama! I responded.

I loved mornings like those that only my nostalgic mind could recreate. For six years, Mama walked me to school, hand in hand, humming the last song that came on that morning from CWTB, a Chinese radio station.
"How is school these days?" she would ask.
Fantastic! Mrs. Freed is this really old woman, but she's really nice and she asked if anyone wanted to read a story to the class, so I volunteered myself. And everyone clapped for me and it was awesome. I think I made at lot of new friends.
"Great! I'm happy for that. Did you hear about what happened to Auntie #4?"
No, what?

Some days, we walked to school quietly. But most of the time, we chatted and gossipped and complained. When she came home from work, I smelled her scent of chicken nuggets and french fries. I always gave her a hug and in return, she pulled out a Happy Meal toy she brought home from work. Mama expressed her love for me in conversations (however superficial), in time (however fleeting) and in gifts (however fried). At that point in my life, she was my best friend and hero. And if I knew who Freud was -- I would have agreed with him wholeheartedly. Of course I wanted a wife like Mama. She chose to save her hugs and kisses for when I was asleep and she rarely said "I love you." But she never had to waste her breath on something so obvious.